I’m fine with being a late bed-wetter. In fact, I learned in my psych class in college that late bed-wetting is a trait often associated with people who show dominance in both sides of the brain. It’s also highly correlated with intelligence. (When I read that in my textbook, I had to talk myself out of elbowing my classmate (a complete stranger), pointing to the paragraph, and saying, “DO YOU SEE THIS? I WAS JUST REALLY, REALLY SMART!!!!”)

Yep, my brain was so exhausted with being brilliant during the day that it couldn’t be bothered with inconsequential tasks while it was resting at night. That’s a good problem to have. I bet you wish you were a late bed-wetter too. Alas, we can’t all be late bed-wetters.

Anywho, for the most part, I had grown out of bed-wetting by middle school, but occasionally….

I’m spending the night with my best friend, Rebecca, in 7th grade. I fall asleep on a pallet on the floor. Rebecca falls asleep in her canopy bed.

When I wake up in the dark, early morning, my immediate thought is, “OH. SHIT.” I’ve peed a puddle on the floor.

THIS IS STILL NOT WHERE MY SHAME LIES, FRIENDS.

I try fixing the situation. (This is where my shame lies.)

I pour a glass of water on the puddle. Ya, because I spilled water!

I change my clothes, and I begin to have doubts. Like, what about the sheets and wet jammies?

I lay on the floor as the sun rises, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

If I’m lucky, nobody notices the puddle.

In the center of the room.

Everyone wakes up and immediately notices the puddle in the center of the room.

When my friend’s mom asks what happened, I play dumb.

“Hmmm, I don’t know, maybe somebody spilled a glass of water?” I offer.

“But it smells like pee,” she says. “And all of these sheets are wet.”

“Ya…oh…you know what? I think (my friend’s sister) peed there.”

“But she slept in her room last night,” my friend’s mom responds.

“Ya, um, but she came in and slept with us in the middle of the night,” I say.

She looks at me like I’m crazy, “But she came out of her room this morning.”

“She went back to her room before we woke up this morning.”

“But her clothes weren’t wet this morning.” She raises her eyebrow.

“She was naked! Ya, when she came in she was naked. She must have been sleep walking. She came in naked. Peed. Went back to her room. Put her clothes back on, and went back to sleep.”

Her mom repeats, “She came in naked. Peed. Went back to her room. Put her clothes back on, and went back to sleep?”

“Yes?”

Stunned. Silence.

And this, this, is why I don’t lie. Because I suck ass at lying.

Let’s be clear. I’m not holding on to shame about the pee spot. Oh no. I’m holding onto shame about telling my best friend’s mom that her youngest daughter was sleep walking and “…came in naked. Peed. Went back to her room. Put her clothes back on, and went back to sleep.”

I cannot even imagine what my friend, her parents and her sister were thinking.

This lie is so epic-ly bad, it’s almost good. Now that I think of it, maybe they should be thanking me for the years of laughter they got from that.

I mean… I hope they laughed.

Ten years after the “naked sleep walking pee puddle lie incident,” I’m in a Borders book store. A young woman my age dances by, and I immediately know, it’s my best friend from middle school.

“Rebecca?”

“ANGIE! Oh my gosh! How are you!”

We stand there catching up for a bit, and then she says, nonchalantly, “You know, I kept a journal of all of our old times together. Everything! I wrote it all down. AND IT’S BEING PUBLISHED!”

She keeps talking about the journal, but I can’t hear her, because my brain is screaming, “HOLY FUCK, the whole world is going to know I peed your floor and blamed it on your naked, sleep walking sister!”

If this story sounds familiar to you, you’ve likely read my friend’s published works.

You know, some people learn not to lie because of discipline and consequences.

I learned not to lie because my lies are historically so bad, it’s not worth the embarrassment.

But there, ahhhh, I’ve owned it. That little piece of shame from 7th grade is officially peeled off my soul.

Previous Post

Next Post

Angie, being Angie. A perfectly imperfect woman, daughter, friend, mother, and wife. I’m a lover and a fighter. I’m up, and I’m down. I succeed. I fuck up. (I cuss). I hope people see things here and in my writing they only think to themselves and are inspired to be unashamed of who they are.
Join me.
Let’s live life… out loud.